I remember it like it was yesterday. It was Valentine's Day, and I was talking to a guy who would later become my first boyfriend. Sadly, he had to work. (Or, at least, that's what he told me.) So I decided to walk around the mall. I was navigating my transition as a teen, just a few months into the first leg of my journey. After perusing the books at Barnes & Noble and the shoes at Charlotte Russe, I came upon a beauty salon that seemed freshly minted. Unsurprisingly, the mall was sparse, and the seats were completely unfilled. So I decided to venture.

Sitting in that chair felt like a light from heaven beaming on me. It was way before all the glamazon I am today; I wasa baby doll, still dreaming of the woman I would become.

I remember the attendant being extra friendly. I assumed she had trans and queer friends, as she didn't balk at me getting my brows done or, later, going out of her way to get MAC Studio Fix samples. I went in feeling a bit sad and alone, but left feeling joyful and affirmed. But, unfortunately, I had to go back home.

At this time, my mother was still grappling with my trans identity. The year was 2002, after all. Trans folks were still navigating their lives and surviving the way we've survived over the years, decades, and centuries. Funny enough, she easily embraced me as gay after reading my diary. (Did I know she had a habit of reading through it? Maybe. But, hey, it worked!) But trans? Out of the question. I guess this cold stance was born out of seeing her baby sibling navigate life at the turn of the 21st century.

By then, Bernadine – Kiki to the family – had already transitioned since high school. After earning her GED, she was considering a career in culinary arts. Though at the time I felt her siblings, with one or two exceptions, accepted her, she found her chosen family in community: Black trans and queer folks who felt abandoned until Kiki's loving arms embraced them. She cooked. She inspired. She housed. And, yes, she boosted. But most importantly, she continued to thrive.

Kiki was the one who picked me up from the mall that night. And when I got into the car, her look was a bit of amazement and fear. Amazed because I dared to have my brows waxed and my lashes curled. Feared, because she knew my mother would not act in the best interest. Yet, still, I ventured.

Weeks and months before, I had a recurring nightmare of being chased by a monster down the steps. I never knew why I had that nightmare, that is, until that night.

I entered the house with no fanfare. The only entrance was a side door by the driveway; marbeled and polished, I looked at myself for the last time in the mailroom mirror before climbing the stairs. I scurried past my mother's room on the ground floor, my baby sister looking aghast. I faintly recall my mother yelling about why I was coming home so late – is this the result of being the duty-bound eldest child of a single mother – and I tried my best not to look at her. But the moment she caught a glimpse of my face, I felt a pit in my stomach. The moments after felt like a blur: mirrors broke; a razor was pulled out to shave my eyebrows; pushing my mother into the bathtub; rushing down the stairs in fright; yelling for help, barefoot, in the cold Northeastern winter; the elderly next-door neighbor hearing my cries.

After that, I loathed my mother. Hated her. I never thought what happened that night could ever be mended. I eventually spent a few weeks at my aunt's house before going back home. My mother tried to understand, but there was still coldness. Eventually, I went back into the proverbial closet.

The duty-bound firstborn child sighed in silence.

It would be many, many years until I explored my gender identity again. By then, I would be a grown adult with accolades under my belt and chosen trans sisters and aunties who guided me, firstly, in my drag life before re-entering my trans journey. Most importantly, the relationship with my mother began to take a positive turn. I remember the day it melted: the day I hosted a large drag brunch at the local art museum. She was enthralled to see the room full of applause, excitement, but, most importantly, support.

Years later, that tense yet silent cold war between my mother and me had thawed. She was no longer my enemy or simply an ally; she is a supporter and an advocate. I remember sitting next to her at the nail salon, smiling and chatting under the UV lamp, and realizing: this is the same woman. And so am I. Just finally known.

We chat frequently. Get our brows and nails done. Go shopping for makeup and get recommendations for my mother's foundation. Hell, even introduce her to my siblings in the trans experience. The Marie-Adélina of yesteryears would cry in joy to see our relationship today.

As Mother's Day approaches, it would be remiss of me not to give thanks to blood and chosen mothers and maternal figures who have guided me over nearly 40 years of my life. I am thankful to everyone. Yes, even through the painful experiences. In a way, I've come to realize the intolerance was born not out of hate but fear: fear of the unknown, fear of being yet another statistic, or fear of living a life not filled because of my identity. But I've lived through it all and can still tell the tale.

To Dominique. To Elisabeth. To Kiki. To Kim. To Aurora. And to many others along the way — thank you. I carry something of each of you with me everywhere I go. I would not be here, would not be her, without your guidance and love. And to those who fear that the distance will only hurt over time. Trust me, it won't. Because at the end of the day, you will find the people who loved you since birth, or the ones who loved you when you decided to be reborn again and live your truest life.

xx,
Marie-Adélina

The Editor's Desk is where Executive Editor Marie-Adélina de la Ferrière thinks out loud — on the stories we cover, the culture we're in, and what it means to build something like this. Have thoughts? So do we. Reach us at [email protected]. Views expressed in The Editor's Desk are the Executive Editor's own and do not represent the positions of POLISH with Marie-Adélina or POLISH Media.